


The Torture of Small Talk

by leere



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, idk why i wrote this i never write angst im not an angsty human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-25 01:39:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3791824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leere/pseuds/leere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's missed Patrick so much, even though he's seen him off and on for the last year. But that's the worst kind of 'I miss you' - the 'I miss you' where you see that person all the time, but something still aches because you miss them in another way, in a way that you can't and won't ever have again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Torture of Small Talk

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a few months back, after I first heard Fourth of July, and I recently found it again and cleaned it up and decided to post it. It's set in early 2013. Yeah, so don't let me write angst anymore. I'm terrible at it. Is this even sad? Does this even qualify as angst? I can't even tell.

He wakes up abruptly, gasping and sitting up straight and somehow managing to not hit his head on the bunk above his. The dream's already slipping, but he knows it was something about suffocating. He hates the ones where he dies. He hates them all, but the ones that end with him losing his life are decidedly the worst. Especially with how realistic they are. He's always shocked to feel his pulse once he awakens from those dreams.

Before he can think, he's slipping out of his bunk, climbing down, and getting into Patrick's. He worms his way into pale, warm arms, facing him, intertwining their legs. He's grateful he has the opportunity to do this - grateful that they're reunited, and grateful that they're on the same bus. It's not like he could go to Joe or a tech for comfort. Thank God they don't do the Andy&Patrick, Joe&Pete thing when they're touring anymore. Pete's a lot less wild these days, so when he offers to share one of the buses with Patrick (which is always), Patrick hardly has a reasonable excuse to say no. Which makes cuddling with him when he's passed out and drooling and ever cuter than usual a lot easier.

Patrick always sleeps quietly and peacefully, never snores or snorts or makes any of the other gross sounds Pete hears when he's lying awake listening to everyone else. Sometimes he hums - doesn't sing, the words don't actually make it passed his lips, and his musical little sounds are never a melody Pete can place, but he loves listening anyway. Pete had Googled it once, the first time he'd heard it, because seriously, who hummed in their sleep? Every page had called it a sleep disorder, but Patrick didn't thrash or make pained sounds or do anything like the people on those websites did. He was just musical, even in his sleep. He's doing that now, some slow, relaxing melody, and Pete watches his face, how it's slimmer and just a little sharper at the edges, yet still Patrick, his Patrick.

Before he can stop himself, he reaches up and lightly brushes his fingers along one pale cheek, feeling the smooth skin. If he moves his hand lower, Patrick's got some stubble that Pete's thrown off by, but the rest of his face is baby soft. Pete brushes his bangs out of his face - bangs! on Patrick! - and then drags his thumb over Patrick's bottom lip and rests it there. He remembers things about these lips, things about Patrick, things that he'd learned years ago in a shitty hotel room in New York City at two in the morning, with a nearly empty bottle of some fancy brand of vodka sitting forgotten on the floor with their discarded clothes and their regrets.

Patrick blinks awake, eyes reddened and glazed but impossibly blue, even in the shitty lighting streaming in from the front of the bus. He squints at Pete for a moment, and then he's pulling away. "Pete," he says, sounding sleepy and adorable. "Pete, stop it."

Pete doesn't answer; instead, he presses himself a little closer to Patrick, pushes his knee between his thighs, grinds it tentatively against Patrick's crotch.

Patrick jerks away from him and grumbles, "Pete, come on, we can't do this shit anymore."

"Nightmare," Pete whispers against his jaw, nuzzling his neck. "Just one more time, 'Trick, please."

Patrick visibly tenses, his unfocused eyes searching Pete's in the dim light, but after a moment of silence, he's singing softly, sounding strained and exhausted but as angelic as ever.

Pete lets his eyes fall shut, feels his heart finally slow. Patrick reaches up and starts carding a gentle hand through his hair as he sings, and Pete lets himself melt into the touch. He's missed Patrick so much, even though he's seen him off and on for the last year. But that's the worst kind of 'I miss you' - the 'I miss you' where you see that person all the time, but something still aches because you miss them in another way, in a way that you can't and won't ever have again.

Pete reaches down to link their free hands, and Patrick stiffens and his voice falters but he doesn't protest. Pete's glad; he's missed Patrick's hands touching him. It's not exactly where he'd like him to touch, but he'll take what he can get. All he knows is he missed the tenderness of him, missed his soft voice and his careful fingers, missed him, and now he's got him back, hopefully for a while.

The happy fogginess that his head is filled with dissipates when Pete feels the wedding ring on Patrick's finger. He knows his wife, likes her a lot even. She's a smart, amazing woman, and Pete knows Patrick loves and adores her, and he can respect that. But it hurts Pete, just a dull, distant throb from a feeling that once was strong, to feel that slim metal band around the Patrick's finger.

"I still love you," Pete whispers, and Patrick stops singing abruptly. His right hand stops moving in Pete's hair and his left squeezes Pete's tighter.

There's awkward silence for a moment. Pete opens his eyes, sees Patrick staring at him, looking blank and a little confused. Conflicted, maybe. Finally, he says, tiredly, "Go to bed, Pete."

Pete wants to cry but his eyes aren't watering. He leans in, presses a brief kiss to Patrick's lips. Patrick doesn't move; doesn't fight, doesn't kiss back. He sits there, staring at something passed Pete, at the curtain behind him.

Pete pulls back and slides out of Patrick's bunk. He climbs up to his and collapses in his bed again, which is now cold because he's been gone long enough. Patrick must turn in his bunk a few times because it creaks loudly for a minute, but then in minutes Pete hears the tell tale baby-breathing that means he's asleep. Pete's not so fortunate, and he lays awake for another hour, lost in his own troubled thoughts.

Patrick talks on the phone to his wife for five hours the next day. They've been on tour for two weeks now, yeah, but five hours? Pete couldn't talk to Ashlee for that long. He probably couldn't talk to Meagan that long either.

Patrick comes out of the bathroom, finally, since he's locked himself in there for hours now. "Yeah, okay. I love you, babe. See you soon."

Pete's jaw sets, and he makes himself watch the entertaining sight of Joe and some of the crew tripping over each other to get to the toilet first. Andy and the rest of the guys are cracking up; Pete doesn't even crack a smile.

Patrick sets his phone on the counter and then slides in next to him, fitting perfectly against his side. He leans against Pete's shoulder, breathing steadily and watching Joe pound on the bathroom door. "Jake, you fucker, I called dibs first! I have to take a fucking shit, asshole, more than you have to piss! You can just do that in a styrofoam cup! Be considerate! You're not being paid to let my bladder explode, you know."

Patrick's playing with the seam of Pete's jeans now. On his calf, there's a loose string there that always bothers him, but he always forgets to remove it. Patrick tugs and picks at it. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

Pete wants to shove him away, once to yell that he's a dick and he keeps fucking with Pete's emotions and he's tired of it, but instead he finds himself wrapping an arm around Patrick and pulling him close. "It's okay," he answers quietly.

Patrick buries his face in Pete's side, and he can only hope he doesn't smell too bad. If he does, though, Patrick doesn't seem to notice, or at least isn't in the mood to comment on it. "I really am sorry," he murmurs, and Pete thinks his jaw is trembling, just a bit. He wonders if he talked about last night with Elisa and that's why he's upset. 

Like he has any fucking reason to be upset. Pete's suddenly a little mad, and his hand squeezes Patrick's thigh, just this side of threatening. "I am, too."

Patrick looks up at him, pink lips and wide, troubled eyes, and Pete can't take it.

What if we'd worked out that first time? Pete thinks. What if it hadn't just been pity sex? What if I'd never met Ash? What if he'd been a little more compliant? What if this never happened? What if that ring wasn't on his finger? What if this didn't fucking hurt? What if he was fucking mine?

"What if," Pete says, and it comes out sounding a little angry, and he knows he's scowling.

"What if...?" Patrick says slowly, obviously expecting Pete to say something more.

He doesn't.

They fall silent. The guys slowly get back from the shitter, one by one. They're not fazed by the two of them cuddling. Andy and a few other guys have been nearby the whole time, but they haven't bothered to look twice.

"It hurts me, too, Pete," Patrick says softly, and when Pete looks down at him, he's got tears in his eyes. He rubs at them harshly, like he's mad at himself for being emotional. "You're not - it's not just you. I've been sick over this shit, too."

Good, Pete thinks bitterly.

Patrick tucks his head into Pete's neck, and Pete sighs and murmurs, "You know, you're my favorite what if," as he presses a kiss to the top Patrick's head. "You always will be." Patrick makes a little pained sound that scratches at Pete's heart. Words don't mean much anymore, though.

Best I'll never know, he thinks as he stands, lightly pushing Patrick off him, and heads into the kitchen to make himself a bowl of cereal. The ache isn't as strong now, and Pete has a feeling it'll be gone by tomorrow. It always is.


End file.
